The Perks of Being a Wallfower
by stylingay
Summary: Kurt is lonely; his best and only friend having just passed away. He is starting high school soon, and he begins writing to a person he doesn't know about his life, and a boy he soon falls for; Blaine. As he tries to get the guy, and still fight for happiness, he is introduced to people, and experiences times he will never forget. Rated M for future content.


Okay, originally I wrote this as a Larry Stylinson fanfiction, but I decided to make it a Klaine one, as well. (By demand of Ruthie, might I add.) I have the Larry version on my Tumblr, but here it is in Klaine mode!

* * *

Dear friend, _July 10_

I know that this may seem rather odd, you know, getting this letter in the mail. But, you see, it's something that I thought would help me through my current situation. I'm writing to you specifically because I heard an older person talking about you to someone. It wasn't in a bad way, I promise. This person said that you'd had the chance to "out" him, and you didn't. He said that it was kind of you, and that it took a big person to keep a secret like that. I don't know what it means to "out" someone, but I know that you're a good person because you didn't do it. So, I decided to write to you because you're a good person.

I'm sure you're wondering who I am. Well, I really don't want you to know that. So, for my protection's sake, I'll call myself Kurt, and the rest of the people I speak of will also have aliases. I can't risk you finding out who I am.

I'm starting high school next year. A normal person would be excited for this, right? I'm not. I don't have any friends. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm just saying that for attention. I'm not. I did have one friend, but he committed suicide last month. Dave was the only person who cared about me.

Dave was great, really. We were close for years. I don't know why he did it. He didn't get bullied. He had too much talent to be an outcast. He could've been one of the people that everyone loved if he wanted to; he was that nice. But he decided to stick with me, Kurt, the introverted, boring wallflower.

It's starting to hurt, writing this. I really do miss him. I think I'll end this letter while I can. I don't want to cry. I haven't cried at all yet.

Love always,  
Kurt

Dear friend, _August 10_

After I wrote you the first letter, I decided that that would be the only one. I didn't want to write more. But then I finally cried over Dave, and I decided that I needed to continue writing to you. I don't mind if you don't even look at my letters. It just feels good to get my feelings out, with no one to have judge me. Even if you do so, I will never know.

I usually don't cry. Ever. I'm usually a plain shell of emptiness. I don't like emotions; they cause too much trouble, so I choose not to partake in using mine. But the grief of my only friend dying finally got to me. It wasn't random, though. I.. I was singing. I haven't sung in two years. That was when I decided not to use my emotions. And when my emotions went unused, so did my singing.  
I'm rather good at it, really. But singing is meant to bring emotions to life. The very things I don't want to use. But the grief was killing me, so I sang. I sang the song that Dave wrote. Did I tell you that he had talent? I believe I did. Anyways, he was the most amazing singer, and he was equally talented in writing music.

Back to the point. I sang Dave's song yesterday. I sang his own song at his grave. I think he heard me, too. I could feel his voice harmonizing with my own in the chorus; the same part in which I broke, and at that point I sank to my knees and laid on soft dirt, sobbing quietly. I knew that this was the closest I'd ever be to him again; sitting on the dirt under which his limp body laid. I cried there, alone, for hours. The next thing I knew, I was waking up with dirt caked on my white shirt and the sunset beaming in my eyes.  
I miss him. I wish he would come back.

Love always,  
Kurt

Dear friend, _August 29_

Like I said, I wasn't excited to start high school. Today was my first day, and quite frankly, it was my own personal hell. My new teachers forced us to partake in pointless icebreakers, and everyone obviously paid no attention to it but me. Usually, I would've zoned out, too, but I wanted to get a read on these people. What were they like? Half way through the activity, I realized that they were all the same; arrogant, idiotic, and conceited. We had to name the one thing that we loved to do most, and the majority of them said that they enjoy activities that solely involve themselves, one boy even saying, "I like to fuck."

When it was my turn, I stood quietly for what seemed like an eternity, building a silence that brought everyone's gaze up to meet mine. I didn't want the attention, but I suppose that's what I get for not enjoying anything. The Curse of the Outcast, they should call it. Finally, after the teacher cleared his throat, I said, my voice shaking, "I don't like to do anything. I like to be alone," and apparently that was the stupidest thing I could've said, because the class turned into an uproar of laughter, with only my teacher remaining his composure.

"Enough," his voice rang out; and with that, the icebreaker continued.  
What felt like an eternity later, the bell rang and the school day was finally over. I don't know how I survived it without Dave. I really don't. Oh, and I haven't cried again since the last letter. But I've still been singing every day. Just, different, less emotional songs.  
I hope my experience with hell- I mean high school gets better.

Love always,  
Kurt  
-

Dear friend, _ September 14_

I think I've made a friend. Though, I suppose I shouldn't consider him a friend. My English teacher, Mr. Schuester, has seemingly brought me under his wing. I've taken to singing quietly by myself outside during my lunch period, and one day he passed me by as I was doing so. When he recognized the song, he simply sat down next to me and joined in without a question or word. It felt like something in my soul had mended in that moment. The harmony our voices created made me feel temporarily whole.  
However, that feeling soon dissolved into the everlasting emptiness that was my heart. I might not have been fixed, but I gained a friend.

After our last note rang out in the empty courtyard, we sat in peace for a few moments longer. When we became more comfortable with the silence, it was broken, yet again, by Mr. Schuester.

"You sure can sing. Didn't you say you didn't like to do anything on the first day?"

"I don't like to sing," I responded simply.

"It doesn't seem that way."

"It is," I stated, and though it sounds harsh when I write it now, it wasn't harsh at all for that situation. He understood, if not my story, then the fact that I was being honest; and he nodded to show it.

I don't know exactly how it happened, but we ended up back in his classroom, still during the lunch period, and I'd spilled everything that I've told you so far to him. I never thought I'd be able to speak my feelings, but writing to you makes it easier for me to do so. I didn't tell him that I write to you, though.

Mr. Schuster told me to call him Will, as he said he finds us to be friends now, as opposed to just teacher and student. I didn't argue. Will was almost as great as a friend as Dave was, I realized at one point; and that's when I cried again.

All in all, it was the best day of school I've had so far.

Love always,  
Kurt  
-

Dear friend, _September 27_

Will and I have been getting closer. I spend my lunch period with him in his classroom every day. Sometimes we sing, sometimes we talk, but most of the time we sit in silence. It's a calm silence, though. I don't mind it.

Will told me that I should try going to a sports event for my school; to socialize with people I might get along with. I really doubted I'd find anyone I ever would get along with, but I decided to go. I've never gone to a sports event that my step-brother, Finn, hasn't been a part of. He plays soccer at Penn State. It's his first year playing at university, and he really is good.  
Back to the point, My parents didn't need much convincing. It was the first time I'd ever asked to do anything since Dave had, erm, left us. They practically shoved me out the door.

Well, I sat alone at the opposite end of the field from the entry for the majority of the game. A gate surrounded the field and bleachers the entire ring around, and I sat back against that. As I always do when I'm alone, I began to sing.  
It was just as unexpected to hear someone join in with me now as it was when I was at Dave's grave, but this time it startled me even more. I stopped singing immediately and snapped my head around to where the voice was coming from; the other side of the fence. I was met by a girl with warm brown eyes, and an affectionate smile.

She definitely wasn't frightening; not in the least, but I couldn't stop staring. I didn't expect anyone to be near me, since I was sitting at the opposite end of the field. I don't know why I reacted so badly, but hey, I was all alone for the majority of the game.

"Hey, stranger," said the girl, with a different voice than I'd heard singing with me.

"I-erm, I-"

"Santana, don't harass the kid," chimed in that voice; the one that sang with me. I didn't realize beforehand that the voice was so beautiful, but it was obvious now. I ripped my eyes from where they were scarily trained on the brown ones, and switching my gaze to look at the boy, my breath hitched in my throat. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of hazel I'd ever seen, with green and brown flecks; and just as I had shifted my eyes, he licked his plump pink lips in the most desirable way possible.

And in that moment, I realized that I was gay.

Yours faithfully,  
Kurt


End file.
